O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

My chastity's the jewel of our house, bequeathed down from many ancestors.

For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard.